I never thought I'd be writing this post. I mean, the last thing I'd ever thought of writing was stuff for children. I write sagas and romantic suspense and thrillers for adults. Writing for children was never in the script. However, here I am three-quarters of the way through a children's book and enjoying it. What's more, this morning I woke up in the early hours with another exciting storyline for children running through my head. I just had to get up and make some notes, which upset my dogs because they are always ready for breakfast whatever the time. My rattling around in my office did not, fortunately, upset my husband, who continued snoring his way through the dawn and into the sunlight at the other end.
The book I'm writing, which is really only a practice run for whatever might follow, is a light suspense novel called The Mystery of the Strawberry House and I'm aiming it at a reading age of 8 and upwards. My two step-grandchildren, Sophie and Lottie, inspired me to write this because they keep asking their mum when they can read my books. I thought I'd better get my finger out and get one written especially for them. I had great difficulty choosing the title, but a writer friend's six-year-old grandson, Baresh, came to my rescue on that score - and now he, too, is waiting to read the finished book.
The new book idea that came to me in my sleep is a much darker storyline. Set in historic London, there's quite a bit of hardship and horror. However, since I'm the one writing it, there will also be a goodly amount of humour. Can't write anything without my humorous side showing through - often quite by accident. But that's me, in writing and in my real life.
And for those of you who are asking what's happened to my latest [and hopefully greatest] saga The Last Monsoon, I can assure you that it will soon be flowing from brain to fingers to keyboard and will be finished before Christmas - long before, hopefully. So for that event, it's still a case of "watch this space"!
Last night was a hoot! It was the village carnival and I went as a French artist intent on enjoying myself - and enjoy myself I did. It was great fun and amazing how many people failed to recognise me under the berret, the long black wig tied in a pony tail and the black facial hair - all false I hasten to admit. In fact, it was so false I gradually lost bits of the beard and stuck them back on with the glue I had thought to bring with me. However, when the mustache dropped off into my dessert, giving everybody a good laugh, I decided that enough was enough and ended the evening dancing bare-faced. This was the first time in two years that I was able to dance due to crippling sciatica and arthritis and I was SO happy to do so. Mind you, this morning I'm hobbling a bit, but feeling very satisfied with my achievement.
